Freedom -- and All That Comes With It
by WhitethornWolf
Summary: Champion of Kirkwall. Apostate. Revolutionist. Warmonger. Some labels were fair, some weren't. Hawke cared far more about freedom than the stories - she left those to Varric. The truth is, of course, what you make it.
1. Carver and his damn stubbornness

Meera knew the trouble had really begun when Carver returned from Ostagar.

She remembered the day he'd left. The entire village of Lothering said goodbye to someone; sons, brothers, husbands…even daughters and sisters. Half the women marched with the army, their hard expressions barely concealing the fear simmering just under the surface.

Mother spent the week before trying to convince Carver not to go. At first she'd shouted. Then she'd coaxed. Finally she pleaded - that was when Meera and Bethany knew she was truly desperate, for Leandra Hawke never begged for anything.

But nothing would move Carver. This was his chance to really do something for Ferelden, he'd said, instead of being stuck in Lothering (though he didn't say it) looking out for Meera and Bethany. That was Carver for you; always restless with a stubborn streak a mile long, always so sure there was more to life beyond the quiet little village they called home.

So he left with the rest of them, just one more pair of boots trampling the muddy ground into slush. And as the days turned into weeks, Mother's face grew as pinched and lined as any village woman, and her nails became ragged. She spent half her time wandering the house and the rest of the time praying as if she could force the soldiers to return by sheer will alone.

Two months passed and the soldiers did return, and Carver was not with them. And for a week Mother's sobs rang through the house, Bethany's tears fell into the soup and for once in her life Meera went without complaint to tend the garden and put forget-me-nots on the non-descript little grave in the corner of Lothering's cemetery.

Then came the silence; tense and unbearable, and things only worsened with the news that came in from the south. Meera cared as much about the goings-on of kings and Grey Wardens as she did for the dirge the chantry choir sung for months on end.

"We'll have to leave soon," she told Mother and Bethany, without so much of a crack about how things had improved since the templars left.

"We're not leaving without Carver," Mother said, and so they stayed.

While people trickled out of Lothering with what few meagre possessions they had, the Hawke family stayed. And when the Chantry priestesses were evacuated, still they remained.

Not until Carver came home, Mother said, and Meera hadn't the heart to tell her that Carver was not coming, for she didn't quite believe it herself. Instead she packed their possessions and gathered food, and gritted her teeth every time she walked past the chantry and saw one more candle added to the shrine of remembrance.

And one day she opened the door, and there was Carver. He was battered and bloody and sweaty, but there was no mistaking the shock of black hair and the intense blue eyes - father's eyes, just about the only thing he'd inherited from him.

"Sister," he mumbled, and fainted.

It wasn't the first time he'd turned up at the door, swaying like a drunken idiot, or even the first time he'd passed out on the kitchen floor. Passing out on top of his own sister was definitely a first, and Meera resolved (even as she struggled to extricate herself from his limp form - since when had Carver become so damn _heavy _-) to not let him live it down. Ever.

The clatter and thud brought Bethany running, and the look on her face when she saw the two of them on the floor in a tangle of limbs made Meera want to laugh and cry at the same time. Mother was not far behind her.

"Now can we leave?" Meera asked.

"Yes," Mother said, and stroked Carver's hair back from his brow.


	2. New beginnings and old lovers

"I think I can see the appeal of this sea of yours."

Meera leaned back on one elbow and lifted her hair, shivering as the wind hit her bare neck. After hours of scorching, dry heat a little cold was a welcome change, and the sting of sea spray felt pleasant against her skin.

Isabela glanced over her shoulder, lips curling into a smile. "The sea is for everyone," she said. "I knew you'd love it."

"If it takes us far away from the templars, I'm sure I will." Meera moved behind Isabela, wrapping one arm around her torso and resting her cheek on her back. "And the company's not bad either."

"Oh, just you wait." Isabela's voice was a purr as she spun the wheel. "All this space to ourselves, and no-one to disturb us. I have plans for you. Don't you worry."

"That sounds promising," Meera murmured against her shoulder. "Where are we going? I would be happy if we ended up all the way up north, as long as I can relax. We deserve a long holiday, don't you think? Or should I just stop talking and let you decide our course?"

"I thought you liked being in charge?"

"On land, perhaps. So what's it to be? Val Royeaux? Llomeryn? Minrathous? Where will our grand adventures take us?"

"Rialto," Isabela said, brushing back Meera's hair with her free hand. "We'll make some coin, hire some men, and sail through the Northern Passage. And from there...? The world is our oyster, sweet thing."

"It sounds like you have it all figured out." Meera unlinked her arms and stepped back, letting Isabela turn. "But you don't have to stay, if you'd rather go. We might be fleeing templars for a while yet."

"Leave you? But then who would I have adventures with?" Isabela tipped Meera's chin up, kissing her swiftly on the mouth. "We've come this far, it would be a shame to turn back now."

It'd be more than a shame, and they both knew that - but there was no need to say it. Meera walked over to the side of the ship and leaned over it again, this time staring at the smoke that blackened the horizon. The sea was before her, and Kirkwall behind her. She glanced back at Isabela bent over the wheel, back straight, legs planted firmly, and smiled for what felt like the first time in years.


	3. I must find my own path, he says

"How could you do this to me?!"

Carver barely lifted his head from the armour he was polishing, but he felt his ears flush hot and red. Meera's voice was loud enough as it was, but half-shouted across the Gallows courtyard it made the templar initiates shoot them both curious glances.

She was wearing a dress; an old, shabby thing patched a dozen times with their Mother's careful, tiny stitches. No staff, but she'd have to be a sodding fool to carry one in this place.

"Hello, sister," he said with effort. "Did Mother send you?"

He gestured for her to sit. She didn't, of course.

"Our mother," Meera said icily, "is at home _weeping_. She hasn't stopped for two days!"

"Would you keep it down?" He growled. "You want to bring the Knight-Captain out here?"

"How could you do this?" She hissed. Her hair was coming out of its tie, her bodice askew. "How could you choose the templars after - and knowing about me - "

"It's always about you, isn't it." There was no heat in Carver's voice, only weariness. He picked absently at a scab on his thumb and waved a hand at the other templar initiates going about their duties - some polishing armour, some practicing with sword and shield. "What if this is what I want for myself? It's always been about you and - " he stopped abruptly. It had been a year, and he still couldn't say her name.

"Is that what this is about?" Meera said incredulously. "Because of me - and Bethany. You're what, punishing me now? What did I ever do to make you hate me?"

"I said keep it down." Carver put aside his gleaming tassets and wiped his hands on his trousers. "Look - that's not why I joined the templars. Aveline already told me she won't let me in the city guard - "

"Oh, _balls_. Don't even try to blame Aveline for this - "

"Meers, shut up for one second and listen. Look - " he dropped his voice again, keeping his gaze on hers. "I'm not going to turn you in. You have my word."

She still looked tired and angry, same as she had not two days ago when he'd finally moved his things out. He hadn't bothered to ask her how the Deep Roads expedition had turned out, if their family were nobles again. He still wasn't sure how much he cared - or maybe he was afraid of caring too much.

"Your word, do I?" Her shoulders drooped. "I don't have anything to say to you."

"Sister - " Carver started, but she was already hurrying away.

* * *

"You'll wear out my floor, Hawke," Varric said as she passed by him for the fifth time. "Look, don't worry about Junior. He'll come around."

"That's what I'm afraid of." Meera sprawled into the nearest chair and pulled her abandoned pint towards her.

"You know he wouldn't do anything," Aveline said from the doorway. She'd never been a great liar, and the forced lack of concern in her voice didn't help.

"Why couldn't you have just let him join the city guard?" Meera snapped at her, and immediately felt bad for it.

"Hawke - "

Meera rubbed her forehead, sighing. "Sorry." The old fear was back, making her skin crawl with uneasiness. She'd almost forgotten what that felt like.

"He gave me his word," she said eventually, like that settled it, and drained her drink. "But maybe I should build a moat around my house, just in case."


	4. Isabela and her own damn stubbornness

Isabela showed up in the Hanged Man exactly two years, eleven months and one week after the Qunari invasion.

"But hey, who's counting," Varric said, as he relayed the information to Meera over their weekly drinks. "It's only the eleventh and a half time you've asked in the past month."

"The half was when I was drunk, right?"

Varric grinned. "You passed out on the table and Fenris had to haul you upstairs."

"So that's why he was glaring at me the next day." Meera cast a glance over her shoulder at the crowded bar.

"Go on," Varric said. "What's the worst that could happen?"

She gave him a disbelieving look. "You realise this is Isabela we're talking about, right?"

"You'll be fine, Hawke. Have some liquid courage."

"It's liquid something," Meera said, and drained her glass. "Maybe a bit of courage would make it taste better."

* * *

After nearly three years it was odd to look at Isabela's spot at the bar and see the woman herself, and not just a lingering memory. She looked as she always did - casually alert, armed to the teeth, and drinking straight from the bottle.

"Hello," Isabela said, and took another swig.

Meera raised her eyebrows.

"That's it?" she said. "Just 'hello'? No 'I missed your electricity trick' or 'I brought you something from Antiva'?"

She'd been hoping for a smile, or even a smirk - nothing. Damn.

Isabela pushed away the wine bottle and turned around. She leant against the bar, one leg crossed over the other.

"So," she said, with a hint of amusement. "'Champion of Kirkwall'. Moving on up in the world."

"It has its perks. Fancy dinner parties, nobles dripping in jewels...it makes my fingers itch." Throwing caution to the wind, Meera reached for the wine bottle and took a swig, somewhat relieved when Isabela didn't move to stop her. You don't mess with a pirate's drink - not unless they let you, of course. "Though that's your influence, I suppose."

Isabela didn't smile. "Why are you here, Hawke?"

"Enjoying the Hanged Man's hospitality, of course. Where else can I get swill of this quality in Kirkwall? It's so bad it's almost good."

Still no smile. Meera sighed and motioned her to a vacant table. Isabela sat across from her, nursing the wine bottle and looking for all the world like she'd rather be anywhere else.

"Look," Meera said in a low voice. "About what happened with the relic -"

"You don't have to say it," Isabela interrupted. "We already know what happened. It's past history."

"Then why are you acting like this?"

"I'm not-"

"Oh, bullshit. You've been gone for nearly three years, and now you show up out of the blue without a word? Varric tells me you've been back for several days and you haven't even come to see me."

Scowling, Isabela muttered something that sounded suspiciously like bloody dwarves. When Meera raised an eyebrow, she said, "I was drinking."

"You'd rather drink with the regulars in here than with me? You're better than that. Besides, don't you know Champions get fancy wine and everything?"

Isabela rolled her eyes. "What do you want me to say? That I feel comfortable here? You have your big mansion in Hightown, and you have the others."

Meera took another swig of wine, ignoring the other woman's glare.

"The others are the others," she muttered. "They're not Isabela. No-one's like Isabela."

"Well, of course not. They'd all have to be better with a blade." For the first time Isabela smiled, a little smirk that lifted the corner of her lips. Then it was gone the next second, and she stood up.

"Look, the fact is we have nothing in common anymore. You're the Champion of Kirkwall...I'm just a lying, thieving snake."

"No, you're not," Meera said quietly, and for the first time moved in closer. "You're just afraid of being something else."


End file.
